The Death of Paris
by ElvenDestiny
Summary: Oenone, the lover of Paris, foresaw his death, yet he still leaves her for Helen. Years later when Paris is mortally wounded, he remembers her promise to heal him. The littleknown story of love and betrayal, based on the Trojan War.
1. Bitter Tears of Farewell

**The Death of Paris**

By ElveNDestiNy

May 18, 2004

Summary: Oenone, the lover of Paris, was taught the arts of prophecy. Although she foresaw the death of Paris, he still leaves her for Helen. Years later, when Paris is mortally wounded, he remembers her promise to heal him. Oenone must decide his fate, yet she is blinded by her bitterness...

Disclaimer: I (obviously!) do not own _The Iliad, _or _Troy_, the movie. Several references were used in writing this story: _The Trojan War_, by Bernard Evslin, _A Fair Wind for Troy_, by Doris Gates, and _The Iliad_, by Homer.

Author's Notes: As usual with Latinized Greek names, spellings vary. I've used most of the Latin names: Oinone then becomes Oenone, etc. The biggest difference lies in the substitution of the Greek 'k' with the Latin 'c' and the change to the endings of the names. For example, Korythos becomes Corythus, Philoktetes becomes Philoctetes, and so on. Although this story is true to history/myth, I've taken some liberties with it, as usual with historical fiction. For those of you intelligent enough to catch it: yes, I have made Paris my tragic hero.

**Chapter 1: Bitter Tears of Farewell**

_She saw the beautiful Helen at his side and watched painfully as he reached out a hand to stroke the golden hair. When Helen's eyes darkened with love, she understood only too well what it was like to fall under the melody of his voice, the charm of his touch. Had not she, herself, succumbed to the desire that he awoke in her? _

_Paris...oh Paris, how could you forsake me? It was as if a thousand daggers drove themselves into her heart. _

_Yet she understood it too well, looking on the face of Helen. Her heart despaired; how could anyone resist this vision of temptation, the most beautiful mortal woman in the world?_

_The scene changed, to all the ugly glory of war. A battle raged outside the walls of proud Troy, and men died. She saw the invisible hands of the Gods wage war on each other through their mortal instruments; saw the madness of Ares come upon the Trojans so that they fought unceasingly even when they should have fallen, even when they had been fatally wounded. _

_Blood, death, and terror. It was all around her, surrounding her, the dances of death and the blind fury of battle, both a thing of beauty and yet a monstrosity. The years may pass and the weapons and the people change, but forever men devise new ways to kill each other. _

_She heard the sounds of battle, the harsh grating ring of swords clashing, the hissing of the arrows as they flew through the air. Worse yet were the cries of pain from the dying, the roars of mindless anger, and the noise of armored men grappling and seeking only death—for themselves, or for the enemy. _

_Finally she saw what she had been waiting for. She saw her beloved, mortally wounded on a battlefield weeping with blood. Crying out, she strained to touch his unconscious form, seeing the blood soak through the layers of clothing, staining his armor red. He lay disregarded on the battlefield, just another one of the fallen. She yearned to wake him, to assure herself that he would not die as mortals do. _

_Her heart beat frantically, with shaking hands she tried to rouse him, but she was invisible, a ghost from the past, no more, no less. She would not let him suffer this way...he would not die with her by his side. Only it was Helen that he had left for, Helen whom she had seen standing besides him. _

_It was too late, too late... _

- o - o - o - o -

It was the middle of the night but Oenone woke in her bed, shuddering and full of fear. The copper taste of blood was in her mouth and she gagged, visions of the battlefield and gore still repeating in her mind.

_Paris..._where was he? The bed was empty besides her, cold and undisturbed. Oenone rose from the bed, clothing herself quickly in a white drape of fabric. The glint of silver in the moonlight caught her eye, and she felt herself calm for a moment. Without looking, she knew it was a small teardrop of clear stone, entrapped by winding silver leaves. He had given it to her the day they were married, here on the mountain of Ida. She, the water naiad, daughter of the river Cebran, and he, a simple shepherd.

Nothing was so simple now. Remembering the scenes from her dream, Oenone's soft smile vanished and she hurried forward when she found Paris. He stood by the open window as he had been wont to do in the past few nights, looking up at the stars. The moon was full that night and the light poured down lovingly on his face, emphasizing the smooth curves, the poet's mouth and noble features. His dark hair blended with the shadows and he stood unmoving, even when Oenone called him.

"Paris..." She reached up and laid gentle hands on his shoulders to attract his attention. Ever since that foolishness with the gods he had been like this...distracted, thoughts far away, so much so that had he had nearly lost that troublesome ewe in the past week.

He finally turned around to face her. "Oenone, I must leave for Sparta." It was just that, unadorned, with no explanations, no other words than the plain statement of a fact.

It was the moment she had feared ever since he had returned. Finding that her throat had choked with tears, Oenone closed her eyes and turned away from him, hugging herself as she struggled to gain control of her emotions. Paris, like most men, listened even less to women when they cried.

When she opened her eyes again, he had turned back to the window again, looking at the moon. The cool night breeze ruffled his hair. Oenone shivered, but it was not from the cold.

"It is for her, the queen of Sparta, Helen," she said as calmly as she could manage.

"Yes. She was promised to me by Aphrodite, when I gave the Goddess of Love the golden apple," Paris replied. "I have told you the tale before."

"Helen, another man's wife," she strove to remind him. "She is a queen, and the kings of Greece have sworn an oath to protect her."

"She was promised to me," Paris said again. "I shall have her, the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Paris, listen to me," Oenone said, giving way to her tears. They shone in her eyes but she refused to let them spill. He stood before her, as beautiful as he always was, but cloaked with the shadowed glow of arrogance. Oenone looked at him and knew that he had forgotten her, that he would leave her and his son for this woman that Aphrodite had promised to him.

"You loved me once," she whispered to him. She made him face her and then, reaching up, kissed him gently, with all the pain and sorrow she felt in her heart "Can you not heed my warnings now? I have learned the art of prophecy; I have seen that your death will be terrible if you should sail for Sparta."

"What is your gift of prophecy against the will of the gods? I tell you, Oenone, that Helen has been promised to me by Aphrodite herself, and I mean to have her. Husband or no, such a treasure will be mine."

Oenone thought of her sleeping son, only six years old, and of how he would bear the loss of his father. If not love, then reason, perhaps, could sway Paris, she told herself, but her heart was full of doubt. "Paris, she is the Queen of Sparta, wife of a powerful king and much-admired amongst the Greeks. They will fight to defend her. If she is, as you say, such a treasure, a war will be started over her." She did not say that she had foreseen it.

"You forget, Oenone. I am a prince of Troy, and for Helen I will claim my birthright. Forty-nine brothers I have, and the men of an entire kingdom behind me. The king my father will not deny my request, not after I have spoken to him."

"I know this," Oenone said, grasping his arm. "I have see it, but I have also seen what will come of it. Blood, Paris, and death...will you sacrifice a thousand men for the sake of this mere woman, Helen? Two thousand? Three? How many will you commit to this cause?" Looking into her husband's face, she knew it was useless to continue on. He was mad in his love, so mad that he would not care who died, as long as he had Helen.

"For the love of this woman, Paris, you will _die_! Can you hear me not? I have dreamed a true prophecy, and too have seen you fall in battle, wounded by the weapons of Heracles!"

"So you will say, out of the jealousy of your heart. I have long lived the shepherd's life here with you, with nothing greater than a naiad for wife. Yet I know that I am a prince of Troy, I have heard from the Goddess of Love herself that Helen is to be mine, and all you can speak of are your prophecies!"

"If not mine, then at least heed the Oracle who spoke at your birth. Why, Paris, why did your parents cast you out, rather than raise you as a prince? Ill words were spoken over you, that it is _your _actions that will lead to the fall of Troy. Do not seek to set yourself above the gods, Paris!"

"Oenone, my heart is set upon this path, and I shall not be swayed from it by your sour words. I am glad, glad that this has passed, for it has shown me the true face of one whom I thought I had loved."

"Paris..." The tears overflowed at last and Oenone began to sob, but rather than feeling Paris' comforting arms around her, she only heard his bitter laugh. "Paris, why will you not listen? I speak not from envy of Helen, but for love of you..."

"Speak no more, Oenone," he said coldly. He went into their bedroom and shut the door. The argument had woken their son, and Oenone could hear Corythus calling for her, questioning. Oenone was left to wipe her tears and calm her son.

When she had entered the bedroom again, Paris seemed to be already sleeping. Yet as Oenone slid under the blankets, she saw his eyes open. Although he was tense still with anger, she turned to him and rested her head on his shoulder, curving her body around his as they had so often done.

"I know that you will go to her, and there is nothing that I can do. Only, perhaps, this one last thing. When you are wounded in battle, Paris, come back to me, for only I can heal you and save you from death. Promise me this, Paris, if nothing else," she pleaded.

He turned so that his back was to her, but she knew that he had heard. As her arms circled him and hugged him tight, she thought of the familiarity of his warmth, the slender muscled strength of him, the feel of his dark hair against her cheek. She had always known she loved him more than he loved her.

"I love you, Paris. Remember your son Corythus, when it is she that embraces you so. Remember the love that we once shared, the quiet love and simple food that gave us all the happiness in the world. When you have seen the horrors of war and walked amongst the bodies of dead men under the sun, remember our green pastures and the wildflowers swaying in the breeze. When your hands have become calloused from the use of sword and weapons, remember how you had once touched the softness of a lamb's fleece."

His breathing was even and deep, and from long experience Oenone knew that he had fallen asleep. Only this knowledge gave her the courage to whisper these last words to him, when he could not hear them. She reached out to brush against his cheek. He was so beautiful in sleep, when all the cares of the world went away and his lithe limbs were sprawled in childlike abandon.

"One day, some day, _remember me, Paris_."

- o - o - o - o -

She watched the sunset rise the next morning, from the same window that they had quarreled by. When she had risen, the spot besides her was cold and empty, as was her heart. Her love and faith, what power had it against the shallow allure of beauty? In the end, Paris had chosen faithless love.

Oenone did not need to look for him on the mountain to know that he was gone. She swallowed her despair, but in its place grew only bitterness, like a slow poison in her heart.

- o - o - o - o -

A/N: **Please review!** This is just part of five, but beginnings are important, and I'd love to hear how you think I did with this. I know there are more chapters to read, but if you have a spare moment or two to review this one...

Oh yeah, after my friend Robert's review, I realized I forgot to say some things. He thought I was historically inaccurate, but the truth is, this story isn't based purely on _The Iliad _alone. I also have more sources to cite: _Quintus Smyrnaeus: The Fall of Troy,_ by Smyrnaeus Quintus, translated by A.S. Way, _Greek Lyric IV: Bacchylides, Corinna, and Others_, edited by David A. Campbell, and _Mythographi Graeci, Vol. I, _by Apollodorus, edited by Robin Wagner.

E.D.


	2. Abandonment, Seduction, and Sorrow

**The Death of Paris**

By ElveNDestiNy

May 29, 2004

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on _The Iliad, _or _Troy_, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter 1.

Author's Notes: For clarification, this chapter take places approximately ten years after Chapter 1, placing it in the tenth and last year of the Trojan War, in which most of the action happens.

Dedication: For every child that has felt the pain of abandonment, for every mother that has suffered loss.

**Chapter 2: Abandonment, Seduction, and Sorrow**

O Father, do you know how old your son is today? Ten years I have wondered whether we truly meant so little to you. What could have possibly changed you so, that you would willingly leave your wife and son behind?

Father, do you ever spare a thought for us, your family, Oenone and Corythus, whom you left behind on Mount Ida? It has been ten years since you left us and she would not say where you went, only that you are in a war. Ten years of battle and bloodshed. Do you ever miss the quiet love, the peaceful green valleys where you tended the sheep? Do you still have the reed pipes I made for you; do you still play them and listen to the wild yet sweet music?

Why? Why did you leave us here, to face the winters lonely and cold, to bear the mocking smiles of others? They whisper that lovely Oenone has finally lost her man, that Paris had ever a roving eye and that he has left her for another. Then the maids take their turns trying to seduce me, and their mothers say how I look so much like my father. My father, who left us. Why, Paris? Why?

I wonder why I even call you father. It is Oenone who raised me, who cared for me and gave me her love, and I always call her Oenone. Did you know that she has not aged since you left? She's as beautiful as she was when she married you...maybe that's why I cannot seem to call her mother. The few visitors to come are always surprised to find that she gave birth to me, for she looks young, though grief-stricken, and she could pass for my older sister.

Some things, once broken, can never be made whole again. You did that to her, you shattered her heart, and it still bleeds as if the wounds were fresh. She spends a lot of time by the river, by her father, and grows ever wilder, ever the more magical and elusive. Sometimes when I hug her, I can feel the frailness of her bones, the thinness of her shoulders. I find myself envisioning one day when she will simply dissolve into mist and be blown away by the wind.

Yet she is strong, we are strong. After you abandoned us, I stepped into your place, a six-year-old child suddenly feeling the full burden of responsibilities. I only asked her once, one single time, why you had left. She offered not explanations or tears, only a promise that I would receive the full story when I was a man grown.

Did you know how hard it was, after you had left? She became the local healer, but some days we went to sleep hungry and cold. At night, I would hear her cry. She never called out your name, but I know it was you that she dreamed of. She dreams true dreams, you know...I sometimes wonder what it is that she sees, when she wakes up terrified in the night.

I look into the mirror and I can see both you and Oenone. Did you know, Paris, that I have Oenone's dark hair with hints of blue, as well as her blue eyes, the signs of my half-human, half-naiad legacy? It must be hard for her to look at her son, because everything else I inherited from you. When I look into the mirror I see your face looking back out at me.

I never asked her why you left us, after that one time. That did not stop me from wondering, and ten years is a long time to wonder.

Do you know how old I am today, Father? I am ten and six years old, and I am a man grown in the eyes of both Greeks and Trojans. Today, Oenone will finally put an end to my wondering, and I will learn the truth of why you left us. Why she sleeps lonely and in agony each night, why she has refused every man since. She is still faithful to you, did you know? As faithful to you as you were faithless to her.

Today, I will learn why her eyes are red from weeping every morning, why you left a beautiful naiad and her six-year-old son. May the gods help me, and you, then, when I learn why you put us through such pain.

Did you know, Paris, that_ she still loves you? _

- o - o - o - o -

She loved her son with all that was left of her heart. Corythus made it easy for her to devote herself to him. He was the one reason why she was still strong, why she had not drowned herself in the waters that she had been born from.

They ate dinner quietly but she found she could not touch the simple food. As the years had passed, she had found herself trying to think of ways to break her promise to Corythus. If only he would never have to know...if only she could keep this secret locked deep inside her heart forever... She was afraid of what her son might do when he finally learned of the reasons for his father's abandonment of him. Oenone wondered how much of Paris he remembered. She dropped the wooden spoon out of nerves when Corythus suddenly spoke.

"Oenone," her son said steadily, catching her eyes even as she tried to look away. She knew that this was a moment that could not be denied any longer. "Tell me about Paris."

So he remembered his father's name, although she had not spoken it since he had left. Of course he would, she thought. If Oenone had suffered when Paris had left her, she suffered doubly so for the sake of her fatherless son.

"It started over a golden apple," she said, voice as even and dispassionate as she could keep it. "A golden apple, with a note that said, 'To the most beautiful.' Of course, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite immediately began to quarrel over it. They called upon Zeus for his judgment, but he was too wily, knowing that the two that were not awarded the apple would be wroth with him."

"Paris," Corythus breathed, knowing it must be the answer. "Paris had a reputation for fair judgment."

Oenone nodded bitterly. "Yes, it was your father that Zeus chose, and the three goddesses in turn tried to bribe him. Hera with power and the reverence of men, Athena with wisdom, and Aphrodite...what would the goddess have offered him, but love?"

Corythus turned away, his hands clenching into fists. "He did not need love! He had you—a naiad, a beautiful immortal wife. He had me, his son. He had _us_, he did not need Aphrodite's love!"

"Corythus, Corythus," Oenone said as she turned to him, entreating him. "The goddess of love offered him the most beautiful woman in the world, and Paris accepted. The apple was given to Aphrodite."

"The most beautiful woman in the world! Paris had _you—_"

"Shhh, Corythus, let me finish." Oenone found that her hands were trembling and she grasped them tightly together so that her son would not notice. She did not know that her eyes betrayed her: dark, swimming with pain and tears, too large in her delicate pale face. "Her name...her name was Helen, and she was the queen of Sparta, married to another man. Paris...he was obsessed, enthralled. I could not hold him to us forever, Corythus, and one night he left us. I offered him faithful love, and in return he gave me faithless love. He left for Helen, and I lost him. In the end, there was always Helen."

Corythus would not meet her eyes. He turned and paced in the small room, face hidden by the shadows. It reminded her abruptly of that last night, when she and Paris and exchanged such hard words, and his face had been veiled by the shadows. "You love him, still."

She had not expected this. Yet even as Oenone felt her heart become a leaden weight in her chest, she could not bring herself to deny it. Ten years, she told herself, _ten years _and she still had not learned to forget him. Would she never learn?

"Your father was a prince of Troy, and he went also to claim his birthright. After sailing to Sparta, he seduced Helen and stole her away. The Greeks declared war upon Troy, and it has been battle ever since. I dream of him more and more frequently," she found herself confessing to Corythus. "I see him defeating Achilles, I see him wounded...I see him dying on the blood-soaked battlefield."

"If he shall die, it will be my will," Corythus declared, standing.

"Corythus, what are you saying?" Oenone grasped his arms in alarm, and then the memory came of how she had done exactly the same to Paris, before he had left. She let go quickly.

"Let me go to Troy, Oenone, so that I might speak with Paris."

"What for? Corythus, when he left ten years ago, he knew that he had chosen Helen over us. He will not love you, perhaps will not even acknowledge you."

"Oenone, do not try to dissuade me from this. I have been your son, and you know that I love you well. I do this for you as well as myself. My presence will drive a rift between Paris and Helen, perhaps destroy their union." He did not say the thoughts in his mind, that he did it for her, but also for himself. Corythus had to meet his father again, had to see this woman that had torn their little family apart.

"Do you believe that even now, I would take Paris back?" Oenone demanded, but her voice lacked the conviction she needed.

Corythus looked steadily at her, always too perceptive. "Can you say you would refuse him?"

There was nothing she could say to that. _I am a fool_, she thought, _a fool to love him after all these years, after he has betrayed me, left me for another woman_. Yet love could not be governed by reason or logic.

"You have last winter's drachmas, and the year before that as well." He looked steadily at her, refusing to rethink his decision even as he saw her tears overflow and slide down her smooth cheeks like two rivers.

"Corythus, do not do this," she whispered. "Do not leave me, as he has. Please, my son."

"Forgive me, Oenone, but I must. Say that you understand, Oenone, tell me this. I will return Paris to you, to us."

"It is too late," she told him, but relented. "I do understand, Corythus, and I do believe you."

"I will leave early next morning. Farewell, Oenone. Do not fear for me; I swear by the gods that I will return to you when my task is complete," Corythus said.

"Corythus," she said again, pleadingly. Oh, gods, how she had pleaded with Paris this same way! Like father, like son, she found herself thinking, watching numbly as the tall, strong figure of her son walked away from her and disappeared into his own room. "Corythus." It was no use; she knew it. She had not stopped Paris from walking out of her life, and now her son would do the same.

She hated herself for lacking the will to call him back, to tell him that he meant more to her than Paris. Even as she opened her mouth to tell Corythus those very thoughts, Oenone knew that Paris would always be first and greatest in her heart.

Would she sacrifice her son to have him back? Gods help her, she _would_, and Oenone knew it. For Paris...she was willing to do anything, anything to have his love back.

She sat at the table and put her head down on her arms, feeling hot tears soak through the thin linen. "Don't leave me here alone," she cried softly, praying to the gods, to whoever would listen and help her. "Come back to me."

Yet even then she did not know if she was praying for her son or for Paris.

- o - o - o - o no longer knew if he was the seducer or the seduced. He was completely hers from the first time he had laid eyes on her. She could tempt any man to their doom. He had meant to seduce her, to take her to bed to stir the jealousy of Paris. He had meant for Paris to return to Oenone, to restore their happy little family. Instead, he had fallen, and fallen fast, to the allure of Helen.

Now as he lay in bed, cheek resting on her golden hair and smelling the sweet perfume of her body, he wondered what he was doing. It was for Oenone, he remembered, but no longer knew what he was trying to accomplish.

Helen turned over and drew him closer, a long pale arm sliding around his waist and caressing his back. He shivered at her touch and his eyes became molten sapphire with desire. "Corythus, that was magnificent," she said huskily, and her smile was a cat's smile, all content and satisfaction.

He couldn't think, with her warm body wrapped around him. Couldn't fight the feeling that he might have just fallen in love with the very cause of all the troubles in his life. He might be in bed with the very woman that had taken his father away from his mother. It was not even maybe, perhaps, or might—he _knew _she was the root of Paris' obsession, but the problem was that he understood far too well why his father might have become obsessed.

Corythus was in danger of obsession himself. He should feel disgusted and ashamed, but he could not seem to bring himself to care. Think of Oenone, he told himself, and it was no use.

He had not noticed anyone coming into the room until a rough hand dragged him out of bed and onto his feet. He had grabbed the sheet to cover himself but that only meant that Helen, the beautiful seductress Helen, was on the bed, uncovered. The firelight flickered lovingly over her body.

Corythus finally gathered himself enough to look up into the face of his handler before he received a blow to his stomach.

"Paris," was all he could gasp before he was doubled over with pain. It _was _Paris—Paris enraged, Paris attacking him, Paris inflicting a good deal of blows to him.

"Uh-unhand me!" Corythus gasped, trying his best to fight back. Helen attempted to step between her two lovers.

It was too late, Corythus suddenly felt a burst of sharp, cruel pain and a warm wetness. He gasped as he saw Paris draw out the dagger that had pierced so deeply into his chest. Helen was crying, the sound tore at him almost as sharply as the dagger had done—with a start, Corythus finally remembered his mother, Oenone and her entreating blue eyes, the color of her father the river Cebren. His promise to come back to her. He had not even had the chance to confront Paris, to tell him...

Paris looked into the face of the man that he had stabbed, and realized several things at once in an unpleasant jolt of surprise. One, that the man he had found Helen with was hardly more than a boy. Two, that his face was uncannily like his own, and that those blue eyes and blue-streaked black hair recalled someone to his mind..._Oenone_. Last of all, Paris knew that the youth he had wounded was well on his way to the Underworld.

"Paris," Corythus gasped again and blood came to his lips. The firelight turned him into something unreal, the jewel blue of his eyes intense, red painting his mouth scarlet. "May the gods curse you, Father...for what you have done to us..."

Even as Paris dropped the dagger in shock, the light in his son's eyes was dying. Helen scrambled to take the sheet to cover herself and then recoiled when she saw how blood-soaked it was.

Paris searched his memory for the name. "Corythus," he finally said. He looked at Helen, body golden in the firelight, and remembered Oenone, his first true love, her pale skin and clear blue eyes, her devotion to him and faith in love.

Now his son lay dead before him and that naiad was far, far away on Ida. It had been years since he thought of them, but he thought of them now, and for the first time Paris found himself wondering how they had fared after he had left.

Looking at Helen, bathed in the light of the flames, her eyes black mirrors of fire, he found himself asking if it was all worth it, the deaths he had caused for the sake of this one woman, Helen. Even the death of his own son. Paris looked down at those sightless, staring blue eyes now, so like their mother's, and tried to imagine what this son would have been like.

"_Two thousand? Three?_" He found himself remembering Oenone's words to him. How many lives would be cut short by his actions? She had never asked him if he would sacrifice his own son's life...

For the first time, Paris felt regret when he wandered through the memories of Oenone and their quiet life in the green pastures and deep valleys of Ida.

- o - o - o - o -

Oenone's scream reverberated through the night as she sat up in her bed, trembling and blinded by tears. It could not be a true dream! It could not...

Yet the art of prophecy had never failed her before, and her dreams were always true.

"Corythus," she cried, "why you, too? Must she take everything from me? Must I live here alone, forever?"

She closed her eyes but over and over the scenes replayed themselves in her mind, the gleam of light on the dagger as it glittered in an arc of silver, the blood all over, blood on his lips, blood on his pale, pale cheek.

Her son, whom she had loved and cherished for sixteen years. Watching his blue eyes darken and finally become glassy and dim in death...it was Paris, Paris had killed their son.

No, _Helen _had killed her son. Her son, the last remaining piece of Oenone's heart! Her son was dead because even _he_ had been enchanted by this woman, this Helen of Troy! Oh gods, why such cruelty? How had Oenone the naiad ever offended them?

Oenone wept as if the tears would never cease, wept as she fled from the house and into the loving watery embrace of her father, the river Cebren. There her bitter tears mixed with the clear, cold, flowing waters.

She did not know if she whispered it, screamed it, or if it was simply trapped inside her mind. Paris, Corythus. My love, my son! _Please don't leave me here alone! _She kept on seeing him lying so lifeless on the floor...kept on flashing back to what she had dreamed, Paris wounded by the bow and arrows of Heracles, Paris dying, Paris as dead as her son...

How much pain could she bear? She screamed, but she was floating in the cold deep waters, and they filled her mouth and she choked, until she felt herself become the naiad again, become one with water. It carried her, drowned her, washed away her sorrow and grief until nothing was left.

_Come back to me..._

- o - o - o - o -

Author's Notes: As I said before, mythology has a lot of loose ends with minor characters. There's little about Corythus, except that what there IS of him is very interesting. "It is also said that she Helen had an affair with Corythus, Paris' son by Oenone. Paris, jealous, killed his son" (Robert Bell's _Women of Classical Mythology_) found on _Mortal Women of the Trojan War_, a Stanford University website. Also, "...Oenone's attempts at breaking up Paris and Helen. She sent Corythus to drive a rift between Paris and Helen but Paris didn't recognize his son and killed him." Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my own version of the events.

**Please review!** - E.D.


	3. Forget Me Not

**The Death of Paris**

By ElveNDestiNy, June 12, 2004

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on _The Iliad, _or _Troy_, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter 1. 

Author's Notes: Paris fans beware…much suffering and torment lies ahead. Hahaha, always wanted to say that. As usual with myths, there are several versions out there and I've decided to make my own. 

Dedication: For Roselynn Geigel. Although I have been alternately touched, annoyed, and amused by your reviews, I'm pretty certain that this chapter would have been considerably more delayed if not for your enthusiasm for this story. Thank you! 

**Chapter 3: Forget Me Not**

_Memories in the Past…_

It was barely dawn when Paris stole out of the small abode, leaving the old shepherd and his wife sleeping in the next room. He ran down the sloping green meadows of his beloved mountain, exhilarated both by the run and by the beauty surrounding him.

No, he thought, no, he would never grow tired of this world. Last night's dew still lay nestled in the lush grass, the little droplets of water sparkling and forming minute rainbows when lovingly kissed by the first few rays of the sun. However familiar these green pastures were to him, their peaceful beauty never failed to enchant him.

Quickly he found the shadowed valley where thousands of blossoms swayed gently in the chill morning breeze. Although it was protected by a circle of tall stones, like the ruins of some worship site, patches of sunlight had filtered between the gaps. Already some of the flowers had opened. Paris gathered a fragrant armful of blue and white wildflowers, the delicate petals just opening, not yet awakened from their night's slumber.

He sat and leaned against one of the standing stones, resting for a moment and looking at the sea of flowers before him. There were two kinds that he had picked: forget-me-nots and a strange sort of flower that he had no name for. They had five petals in a star shape. The flower itself was white, but the petals gradually darkened to red at the center.

He rose and walked through one of the gaps between the stones, only to nearly smash into the object of his affection. A slender, lithe young girl with startling blue eyes and blue-streaked black hair stood in his way, hands on her hips. She was shorter than he was, but that hardly stopped her from glaring up at him with those disconcertingly brilliant eyes.

"Paris! Oh, I had so much trouble fleeing the nymphs, they follow me everywhere, you know! You promised to wait for me—" she cried wrathfully. Her eyes fell on the flowers in his arms, however, and despite herself she smiled.

"Come now, Oenone. These are for you," he said, and gave her the flowers. They filled her arms and catching her in that moment of weakness, he tucked one of the blue flowers into her hair. "There, that's so you'll never forget me," Paris said mischievously.

"Of course I won't, Paris. What a silly thing to say," Oenone said in an exasperated tone. Her tone softened and she said, "Here now, I have something for you, too." She flung her arms around his neck, brought his face down, and kissed him meltingly on his lips.

"That's so that _you _won't ever forget me," she said gaily.

Paris laughed breathlessly and drew her tighter to him when she would have darted away. "There's little chance of that, my nymph. You've captured my heart and ensorcelled me until I can think of nothing else."

He played the lyre for her, the notes sweet and the sound unearthly in the hushed valley. "Come on, I want to show you something," Paris said to her.

Hand in hand, running through the shadowed valley, they looked every bit like two young spirits in love. The daughter of the town healer was gathering herbs when they passed her. She looked up in envy and sighed when the sounds of their laughter and excitement lingered in the air long after they were gone.

Paris finally stopped and Oenone, looking around at her surroundings, found herself in a completely unfamiliar part of the mountain. "Where are we?" she whispered, unwilling to disturb the heavy silence. Here the meadows and grass ended and small brush thickened into a dark forest. Later she would learn that it was the Phrygian forests, and in it grew many of the rarest healing herbs.

"Shh, it's a surprise," Paris said. "I want you to close your eyes." Oenone did as he said, trusting him, and felt him bind a piece of cloth over her eyes. Then he began to lead her, slowly and carefully, for what felt like a very long time. Soon, she heard the sound of water. It relaxed her a little, and Paris' hand on her arm was warm and comforting.

"Here we are," came the sound of his voice in her ear, and he undid the strip of cloth. Oenone opened her eyes and gasped in wonder.

They were in a large cavern, but the stone walls gleamed with veins of silver and gold. Ahead of her, a small waterfall fed the pool of blue-green, clear water. The minerals of the cave had formed fantastic shapes and forms, and sunlight illuminated the room from a hole in the rocky ceiling above.

"I found this place a few days ago while exploring," Paris said to her, watching her reactions with pleasure.

"It's beautiful," she said. Oenone ventured forth and touched the water; to her surprise, it was warm and the pool was deeper than she expected as well as more than large enough for a good swim.

"Go on," Paris said. "The water is clean and it's safe."

She looked at him warily, but could not quite resist. Shedding her clothes quickly and slipping into the water, she swam like a fish and beckoned for him to join her. This was another side of her life, creature of the water that she was.

Later, they lay on the sandy floor and let the wind dry their wet bodies, and knew for the first time the pleasures of love. The blue flower lay where it had fallen when Oenone first entered the cavern and was crushed underneath the nymph unheedingly as she felt passion's sweetest and most dangerous fire.

"Forget me not," she whispered, resting her cheek on his chest. They lay in a tangle of lithe limbs and silky skin as sleep overtook them.

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He had taken the life of Achilles yet despite all the praise and glory that he received for it, Paris could not truly feel that he had deserved the honor. A vague sense of foreboding shadowed him, though he told himself it was nonsense. What god or goddess could stand against him now, if even the mighty Achilles had fallen to his arrows?

Paris lay unsleeping, allowing himself to remember for the first time in many years. Oenone and her simple, yet so true, love. Strange, that it was only after he had killed his son that he felt regret for all he had done, wondered what might now be if he had never chosen to give Aphrodite the golden apple of Eris or fell to the deceitful charms of Helen. Truly was the golden apple from the goddess of Discord!

Yes, he remembered now the little boy Corythus, who had looked up to his father with such admiration. Yet Paris was haunted by what had passed only a few weeks ago, his dagger having found the heart of his son, who looked so like himself.

His restlessness had bothered Helen by his side and now the golden-haired seductress rose up on her side in irritation. "Paris, why do you lie unsleeping? There is battle yet in the morning."

Beautiful Helen, who had betrayed him, taking even his son to bed. What use were Aphrodite's gifts, when the heart inside that perfect body was shallow and false? It seemed to Paris that all the veils that had been put over his eyes in the last ten years were finally ripped away. He was prideful still, too prideful for the gods, but even now, when he should have known the most honor for slaying Achilles, he felt only shame and regret.

Filled with unease, Oenone's dire words of his death echoing in his ears, Paris slept little that night. The next morning, he left Helen slumbering still and entered the world of his nightmares. War, in all its facets; a war, he remembered now, that had been started over the woman that lay sleeping by his side. Helen, who had betrayed him time and again, for whom sensual pleasure had more import than love.

There was little truly glorious in battle, whatever those like Achilles might believe or say. Paris had long been familiar with bow and arrows, but now, rather than using them for hunting, they would take away human life. Perhaps it was not Helen that filled him with regrets, but it was the bloody war itself. Ten years, they had fought, and Paris had finally learned how precious life was. He had seen friend and foe alike lying dead on the battlefield; there was an odd equality in death.

The Trojans were uneasy. There were rumours, whispers that the seers had said that Troy would not fall without the bow and arrows of Heracles, and that Philoctetes the Greek possessed them. Joy over the death of Achilles could not last long amid such dark prophecies.

It was quiet; a sudden hush had fallen over the warriors, one of the momentary lulls in the sounds of battle that occurred infrequently. Paris could not see what it was that had caused the lapse.

The next thing he heard was the hiss of a speeding arrow, but it was not his own. He gasped as he felt white fire spread from his shoulder. Dropping his own weapons, Paris sought the arrow that had pierced through his right shoulder.

Already the world seemed to dim around the edges of his vision. He had been wounded before; it was nothing like this—first numb shock and then agonizing pain, burning, as if knives were slashing into his shoulder.

His body became lax and he was brought to the ground. A shadow fell on him and Paris looked up through a haze of pain to see a warrior, and in that instant he knew the feeling of fear, true fear. Yet he made out with blurring vision the armor in the Trojan style, and he realized that it was another archer, not an enemy come to finish the kill.

"Poisoned…blood…corruption…" Paris heard as if voices were shouting very far away, and it was the last thing he knew.

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It was the pain that woke him—fierce, clawing, burning pain. Paris took a breath and cried out before recognizing his own hoarse voice. His eyes were still blurred, but he could make out the form of a woman standing by the bed, back turned away.

"Helen?" he asked. He was still covered with blood, still in his armor. She turned towards him, mouth set petulantly, but with fear on her face.

"It was Philoctetes and a poisoned arrow of Heracles. You fool, you…" Her voice broke off and as his vision cleared, he realized that she had been crying. Burdened as he was with more pain than he had ever experienced in a lifetime, he could not bring himself to care much.

"Why has the arrow not been removed?" he asked, voice rough. When Helen did not answer, his frustration fed on his pain. "Helen, stop your weeping, by the grace of Apollo! Answer me!"

"Oh, Paris…there is nothing anyone can do. The arrow is poisoned and none dare pull it out for fear of death as well. The venom is deadly, and there are no remedies at Troy that may heal you."

Paris did not need Helen to explain. He knew very well that over the past years he had become such figure of contempt that none would offer a hand to him now, when he most needed it.

He knew without asking, also, that Helen would refuse to help him. She frightened easily at blood and would have nothing to with it. The greatest irony of all, Paris thought, that the woman had caused thousands of lives to be lost, could not stand the sight of death and bloodshed.

Helen had left the room to act out her own dramatics and to cry lovely tears on someone other warrior's shoulder. Paris lay bitterly, knowing that his end was near, and the pain was like needles on his body, but it was the pain in his heart that was truly unbearable.

At last he admitted to himself his mistake, that he had given up something precious and good in exchange for Helen, with flawless beauty and flawed heart. He thought back, ten years past, to remember Oenone and that last night. If only he had stayed, if only he had been faithful still…

It had all come to pass just as Oenone had dreamed. True dreams, but he had been so blinded by arrogance, thinking himself above the gods, thinking himself above Fate itself. Was this his punishment, then, for all his misdeeds? To die alone and in excruciating pain, to have finally repented when it was all too late?

Then he remembered Oenone and her gentle healer's hands, her miraculous herbs from the Phrygian forests that she so loved. His first love, and only true one, Oenone.

It seemed to him as if he could hear the sound of her voice again, singing whilst he played the lyre, and the pain eased a little when he thought of her, back when the days were idyllic and he had never taken another man's life. So long ago, it seemed.

It was only later, near the dawning of the sun, when he remembered her last words to him. _When you are wounded, Paris, come back to me, for only I can heal you and save you from death..._

He knew he must go back to her.

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Please review! Only two more parts to go… Thanks,

ElveNDestiNy

6-29-04 Will someone PLEASE tell me why, when I change the content of this chapter, it always registers as an update? I.e. for some reason the story update date changes and stuff like that…it's really confusing because I keep records on my progress and the dates are all wrong. Is this part of ff.net now?


	4. Forgive Me

**The Death of Paris**

By ElveNDestiNy July 13, 2004

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on _The Iliad, _or _Troy_, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter 1.

Dedication: Beware the abusers do not become the abused. For all those who have dealt pain unto others, in hope that compassion can be taught by a simple story.

**Chapter 4: Forgive Me **

"I have need of medicine for my granddaughter," the old shepherd said to the lovely woman. His eyes darted left and right apprehensively, despite the seemingly ordinary little home he was in, for he had known the woman before him for many years. A long, silken fall of blue-streaked black hair half concealed the delicate face, showing only a glimpse of pale skin and unnervingly vivid blue eyes. Although she had lived here for at least forty years, her appearance was that of a twenty-year-old woman, for she was a nymph, daughter of the river Cebren, and her name was Oenone.

"Very well," he heard her say, and he hesitantly began to describe the signs of illness in his granddaughter: that she coughed blood and could not be woken sometimes, and she was fevered.

"My little Anissa," he said stumblingly, seeking to draw her into conversation, "is only seven years old. I remember your own young lad, your son. He'll grow up to be a favorite of the ladies, I'm sure.

"Your son, I remember the young lad, bright-eyed as you are," he said stumblingly, seeking to draw her into conversation. It was true that the villagers of Ida were curious about this seeming maiden, for many still remembered what prize she had taken from them. His own daughter had loved Paris, whom Oenone had wed, and it was a friend of his that had raised the boy, who had been found on this very mountain.

Two steely blue eyes fixed cold on him, and he would later tell the villagers that it seemed as if her eyes had moving shadows in them, as if the blue of her eyes reflected running water. "Do not speak of him to me," she said quietly. Without more ado, he was handed a packet of herbs and given instructions on their use. In gratitude, he gave her a sack of wheat, having heard from others that she would not accept monies, but only gifts such that were useful to her.

Sensing easily enough that he was not welcome any longer, the old shepherd quickly bid farewell to her and left, well content with the medicine and the tales that he could tell later, of this encounter.

Oenone watched him as he left, soon hidden by the green slopes that were made Ida such an ideal place for sheep and shepherds alike. It had been but a few months since her only son had been slain, and the loss was still keenly felt. She closed her eyes and unbidden, she remembered those bright eyes, the hair like her own, the shape of his face that was exactly like his father's.

She had grieved for herself when Paris left her, and she had hated him. Yet ten years had passed and she had Corythus, and Paris did not seem so vital to her life anymore. Oenone had learned to fix her heart on her son, and to let go, a little, of his father. She would even have forgiven Paris, perhaps, for choosing Helen over herself.

No longer. Twice, he had destroyed her, and she was no fool to let it become thrice. Broken her heart when he left her, and again when he had killed her son—_his _son as well, though he had but known Corythus for six years.

There was a fine line between love and hate, and during the many years after Paris had left, Oenone had stood very carefully on that delicate line. No more. What love she might have still had for him had met its death, even as her son had.

She thought of what she had dreamed last night and smiled to herself. If the old shepherd had been back, he would have been frightened enough to leave, for the smile was cold and bitter, as deadly as poison and knife's edge bright. For Oenone had long had the arts of prophecy, given to her by Apollo and taught in their uses by Rhea, and even as Paris had left she had warned him.

Even now, Oenone knew what had happened so far away in Troy. Paris lay wounded, pierced by the poisoned arrows of Heracles, and Trojans and Greeks alike would have nothing to do with him. She was content that the gods would so punish him, for daring too much, for having started a war that ended so many lives.

The day was growing late but she left the humble home, longing to run free in the valleys and pastures of her mountain again. Two months, Oenone thought, tomorrow it will be two months since my son left for the Underworld. She ran, feet bare and crushing the grass underfoot, and her nymphs ran with her, voices lifted in a song of mourning.

It was in the late hours of the night when she made her way home, her maidens following behind to make sure she would come to no harm. There were people outside her home, however, and Oenone dismissed her followers, thinking that others had come seeking healing and medicine.

She was ill prepared for what awaited her. It was a face she could not bear to see, and it stirred both love and hate in her heart until it combined into some unidentifiable emotion. He dismissed his two guards with a word and they stood looking at each other, the dark night gentle to them. Ten years had passed since they had seen each other in reality, and yet the moonlight fell on them the same way as the night he had left her.

"Paris," she said, by way of greeting...and challenge.

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He dared not look into her eyes, but knelt before her, beautiful face pale and drawn, his eyes haunted with pain and something else she could not tell.

"Oenone, my love," he began, and because his gaze was fixed on the ground beneath him, Paris did not see the icy glint in her eyes that shone when the moonlight illuminated her face. "My wife, Oenone—I did not mean to take this path, to leave you for her. If only," and here he had the grace to falter, but not for long, "if only I had not been so faithless."

"Speak no more! So now you come back begging, Paris, calling me wife and love." Oenone said sharply. "No longer will you fool me, Paris, as you have fooled so many. Beauty and charm you have in plenty, but time reveals what lies underneath and even your own brothers and the Trojans name you coward, and worse."

"Oenone," he said, truly regretting all that he had done. Too late, too late—if only he could change her mind! Here he was, of genuine heart, but she was the one who turned away from him now. The next words he chose with care, although they cost him much to say. "Oenone, I beg you, in all the memories of our love, show me mercy. Only you have the skill and the Fates have decreed that only you can heal me. I love you still, I have never stopped loving you, and even now, we have some hope of a future..."

A strange sort of radiance seemed to bathe Oenone, and she grew the more beautiful in her anger . She wished to help him, it was in her nature to heal and to assuage pain, not cause it. She felt his agony as the poison spread to his heart, but she had vowed to herself no more. No more would she have aught to do with him.

"Paris, I will hear no more. You have committed filicide and killed the one I most love, you have broken my heart twice over and more, and now you entreat me to trust you a third time, to heal you so that you can go back to the arms of your beloved Helen? Oh, it is hardly true that you have never stopped loving me, but one thing I know for certain—I will never again love you!"

"Oenone, must I entreat you until my death is upon me?" He would have spoken more, but it was clear that the pain was too much. "I come from Troy, to seek only you..."

"Would that you had not found me!" she retorted sharply. "I care not, Paris, if you meet your end. Not long ago, I might have softened; I would have sacrificed anything to have you back by my side—until you killed Corythus. Do you know his name, Paris? He is your _son!_" she hissed at him, wishing for a moment that she be there to witness his death, to know that he had suffered for what he had caused. "This is your fate, Paris, that you and no other have brought upon yourself. Once, you scorned me and what I offered...I shall not offer it again."

She looked down at him. The arrowhead remained still in his shoulder, although he had broken off the shaft as best he could. None would risk the poison; none at Troy offered to help him—not even his own brothers, for they feared to die. The legend of the poisoned arrows of Heracles was prevalent and all were wary.

"You come to me now, only when you yourself need aid. Would I have ever seen you again, if not for your wound? I told you ten years ago that I had foreseen your death, but you cared only for Helen! Would you have me help you now, Paris?" Despite all her spiteful words, tears glittered still in her eyes; she was so angry she bit her lip to keep herself from doing more.

"Oenone, offer me some mercy. Would you have me plead some more, so that you may be convinced? Heal me, by grace of Apollo!" As she listened to him, she wondered how she could have loved him. Paris was ever so arrogant, as she had always known, but she had been blinded by love, willing to accept all of him, even his faults.

"Very well, then, Paris!" she said. "I return to you what you have given me, and I will help you only in this way—to speed you to your death! Is this the mercy you pray of?" Oenone reached down and grabbed the broken shaft of the arrow, sticky with dried and new blood. Years of gentleness as a healer were gone in an instant as with one savage motion, she succeeded in removing the poisoned arrowhead. Blood ran over her hands, thick and warm, as Paris cried out before her, awash with agonizing pain.

"Go, go back to your Helen where she waits! Beg _her _to heal you, be blissful in her arms as you await your death! May you know all the pain that you have given me, Paris, may you know what you have wrought in these past ten years. For every man that has died on the battlefield fighting your war, for every father and mother left bereaved of their children, for lovers slain—and this, and more! The vengeance of the gods is with you, as you feel the venom in your blood and suffer the pain. Farewell, Paris, for we will not meet again in this world!"

Her words were true, and Paris was beset once more by pain, though this came from his heart and mind rather than body. Strange, that his mind was clearest when his body was at its most wounded, that his heart at last knew what was love, when it was taken from him. _Oenone_, Paris thought, oddly comforted and at peace even as he knew for certain that there was nothing left for him but death. Such a treasure, she was, but he had not cherished what he had, not knowing the value of it.

With the last of his strength Paris stood and started to walk away, wondering at how the grass seemed so soft beneath his bared feet, how the night air was cool and crisp. He turned to look at her once more, memorizing the simple white dress she was wearing, how it flared at the wrists and had a demure, oval cut that exposed her graceful neck.

This was it, then, he thought. The only one who could help him had refused to do so, and even now, with Keres rapidly approaching, he could not fault her for her decision now. Everything Oenone had said was true—he realized this now, at last, but it was too late. His mind drifted and he wondered idly if it was because of the poison, but strangely now, though the pain still gripped his body, he felt none of it.

What to do now? Where to go, what place fitting for his last few breaths? Breathing in the sweet, clean mountain air, he was beset by memories of his earlier days spent here in peace. He had grown up here, had lived most of his life in contentment, but for the last ten years. Ida remained the same, its small community of villagers thriving on in secluded happiness, but he felt like a stranger here.

No, this mountain had not changed—it was he who had changed, and for the worse. His bow and arrows had been weapons of defense and hunting while he was but a shepherd, but these same weapons in the hands of a prince took on a different meaning. How many times had he fired an arrow into the air, watching as it found its target in the body of a man?

It had been such a long time, ten years. Enough to forever change his life. Paris suddenly knew where he must go, now, for one last time.

Every step of the slow journey was an agony on its own, for the poison in his blood had numbed his muscles and they were tense with strain. When other warriors had been wounded and rescued, Paris had wondered at their forbearance, how they strove so much not to show their pain. He understood now, that it was not merely a thing of pride—after so long, the body became used to the sensations inflicted upon it and began slowly but surely preparing for death.

The valley was just as he had remembered, shadowed still and shielded against the world by those tall stone boulders. Nor had the wildflowers changed in all the years he had been gone, and the wind still rustled as it blew, making the beautiful blossoms sway gently in the breeze.

It was a fitting place for him to die, he thought tiredly. He was not even worthy of it. The quiet tranquility, the soft sound of the thousands of flower petals brushing delicately against each other...gentle memories crept upon him again, and he slept and dreamed, slipping quietly into oblivion. Perhaps death would not be so awful after all, Paris found himself thinking, perhaps he would be offered a chance to redeem himself in the Underworld.

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_The hauntingly sweet notes poured out of his wooden flute, a humble shepherd's instrument. Paris enjoyed the music, but nonetheless he played these heart-rending melodies with an ulterior motive in mind. Just as he had known she would, his nymph appeared, seeking both him and the wordless song of happiness._

_No, not his nymph, not yet, but he had all the intent of making her his. It was in so many small ways that he seduced her, the music but just one facet. Paris' heart lifted to see her standing there, drawn to him even as he was drawn to her. Yet before he could rise and greet her, two more people appeared. Both middle-aged, the men were neighbors and quite well known on Ida for their frequent wrangling. More oft than not, they came to Paris to settle their disputes. He had a talent with people, a way of making them trust him and had gained a fair reputation for being very just in his decisions. _

"_The wall has fallen into disrepair," Lysis said straightforwardly. "He has not taken care of his side well enough and the storm a few days ago knocked down the wall." _

"_Tell me the story from the beginning," Paris invited, keeping his manner light and easy. It gave him no small sense of pride, however, to know that Oenone was watching even as men far older than himself came to him to find a solution. "Where is this wall?" _

"_It lies around our two homes. He will not rebuild it because he claims it is my fault, but it is his tree on the other side which has spread its roots under the wall and caused it to tumble!" Sotias said belligerently. _

_Paris heard them both out, letting the argument grow heated to the point that the two were on the verge of striking each other. When he raised his voice, however, they fell silent. They had come for his judgment, after all, and after many such disputes Paris had proven himself very capable of settling these situations well. _

"_Hear me, then. You are neighbors and thus have lived next to each other for many years. I recall that one of your children even married, and so you are related by kin and blood, not just by how many years have passed. Why destroy your friendship with these quarrels? It does not matter who's fault it is that the wall has fallen. This wall belongs to neither you nor he, but you must both admit that it has protected your families. _

_They would not meet his eyes and only gazed half in embarrassment at the ground, yet so stubborn in their natures that their shame at being bringing an argument to Paris like two boys only fueled their anger. "I will not rebuild it." _

"_If he will not, neither will I," the other declared. _

"_And so there will be no wall to protect your families. Will you risk this, for the sake of pride?" Paris countered smoothly. He had never been a warrior, but that did not mean he was without his own sort of gifts._

"_No," Lysis said. _

"_I will not," Sotias agreed. "But what would you have us do, Paris? Who will spend the time to build the wall, if it must be built?" _

"_Both of you will share it. He will make his half of the wall, and you, Sotias, will build your own side. It will be joined in the middle. The wall protects, but its protection will only be complete if both you and Lysis each make his side of the wall. If no compromise, no cooperation can be found, then you will be without a wall." _

"_Yes, I am willing to do my half if he does his," Lysis said. Sotias nodded his agreement. _

"_Then that is all." The two neighbors left and Oenone came down to him as if she floated on air, for the flowers beneath her feet were not crushed by her weight. _

"_Paris," she called out joyfully, laughing with delight. "I never can understand what magic you have, to charm even Lysis and Sotias into resolving their dispute. I understand now, that your gift is not that of a shepherd, a warrior, or even that of a lover. What makes you unique is that you can persuade people who are unwilling. You will be a great man if you wish it so," she said happily. "Your gift is with people themselves, more so than any charm or romance, any seduction that you might plan." _

"_I hope it is so," Paris said deviously, "for I only wish to persuade a single lovely nymph to be at my side forever. Oenone, will you accept me?" _

"_Yes, Paris," she said, stunned and then laughing so merrily the sheep rambled restlessly in the pasture. No words were needed then as Paris kissed her, gentle at first and then fiercely, promising passion and possession. The betrothed pair wandered hand in hand even as night blanketed the pasture and dimmed the lovely colors of the flowers. _

"_I love you." Simple words that held a world of meaning, the promise of forever. Such things are but an ephemeral dream, though the two young lovers knew it naught on that night. _

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_Your gift is with people. _The phrase whispered into his mind, into his heart. Yes, Paris thought bitterly, yes he had a gift with people, to touch into their hearts and convince them, persuade them to his cause. She had called it a gift, and during those idyllic days at Ida, it had been—a simple gift that brought more peace to the world.

Every gift could become a curse, however, and this one had. How could they have known that even in the moment that they had pledged themselves to each other, they had planted the seeds that would grow into war, death, bloodshed? A reputation for fair judgment had turned the eye of the gods upon him, Zeus himself, no less. A way with people, Oenone had said—that ability had only led him into the clutches of Hades.

Paris was tired, so tired that he would have even welcomed death. There was nothing left in this world for him anymore, not this green pasture and not his early memories. He could not turn back time and choose again, to see where that would have lead.

They called him a coward, but he did not fear death anymore, now that it was coming. _Oenone_, he thought again, awash in memories. Tears came to his eyes, tears of realization and shame, of pain not for himself, but for what he had done to her, and to so many others.

Was this to be his final fate, then? he wondered. Then even that thought was gone, and Paris found himself only wishing for one thing, perhaps the most selfish or the most selfless thing he had done in the span of his years.

If only he could look upon her face once more before death, his heart would be content.

.............................................CHAPTER NOTES..................................................

Please review and offer me your suggestions and thoughts! Originally I planned for one more chapter, but I think I may add more—different ending, etc.

Thanks,

E.D.

(Last updated 8-31-04)


	5. In Death's Realm

**The Death of Paris**

By ElveNDestiNy

October 22, 2004

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended on _The Iliad, _or _Troy_, the movie. Credit to references used is given in Chapter One.

Author's Note: This chapter follows the others after more that three months. Why? To put it simply, I had a great deal of trouble in deciding what I wanted to do with this one, and every time I tried writing it, the ending came out awkward. This is the best version yet, although I think I might go back and improve on this. Also, my heartfelt thanks to all the reviewers and emailers…you guys are incredibly inspiring and supportive, and I know I made you wait a _long _time for this conclusion!

**Chapter 5: In Death's Realm**

"_Paris," she started, unsure of how to tell him the news. Oh, she knew he loved her, but so much would be changing now, and did he even feel ready for a family? _

"_What is it, Oenone?" The seriousness in her voice had attracted his attention and now Paris looked down at his wife with loving concern. They had only been married for a year, but those days were the happiest in his life._

"_Paris, I—" Whether it was from her nerves or her condition, Oenone suddenly felt faint. She suddenly felt his support as he lead her to sit down on the bed. He sat next to her, hands still on her shoulders. _

"_We have a child," she blurted out, hearing herself in horror. It wasn't the way she had planned on telling him. She closed her eyes. Oh, gods, what if he did not want a family? She had tried to hide the signs, to delay it, but her figure was already beginning to change, and he would soon know, anyway. But they had never spoken of it before…_

_She opened her eyes again to gentle hands cupping her face. Paris looked surprised, but she could not read the other emotion that darkened his eyes. "Oenone, why did you not tell me sooner?" Suddenly, he let out a laugh, and she watched in confusion as he took her hands in his, and kissed them. "I thought perhaps you were ill. I worried about you, so."_

"_Paris," Oenone whispered. "Do you want this child?" _

_He looked down at her in astonishment. "How can you ask me that? Is this what has been worrying you—that I would not accept the news well?" _

_Put that way, her fears seemed silly and irrational. Oenone felt tears of relief come to her eyes. For the past two months, she had fretted over how her husband would react to the news, wondered if he would turn from her._

_Paris put his hand over her belly and she realized the darkness in his eyes came from love. "Imagine, Oenone," he said softly, "there is a child inside there, a new life that we created together in love." There was wonder in his expression and impulsively, Oenone kissed him, half from her joy and half from her relief._

"_I love you," Paris whispered in her ear. "Never doubt it, Oenone. Nothing has made me happier than the thought that we will raise a child together." _

"_He will be blessed," she whispered, "for having such a father." _

"_He?" _

_She smiled, mysteriously now, and he loved her all the more for it. "My little oracle," he said, laughing again, and pulled her so that she was sprawled half on top of him. Oenone felt tired but deliriously happy, and she lay back in his arms with a sigh. _

"_Sleep now, little mother," he said, curling around her body from behind, arm flung over her still slender waist possessively. "Dream of our child, love."_

- o – o – o – o -

Oenone stared in horror at the bloodied, broken arrow shaft that she had thrown on the table. Her hands were sticky with blood, the viscous liquid not red, but brownish-black, because the poison had tainted it.

What had she done? All for her foolish, unforgiving pride…all to hurt him, to make him know what she had felt for so many years. Vengeance, this irrational desire for revenge, because he had once scorned her and cast her aside for another. _You fool, you_, she thought to herself. _Can you not see you are only hurting yourself more? _Because no matter what she did, she could not win. She still loved him and would always love him, no matter that he was with another, or had betrayed her time and time again, or even that he had killed her son. Their son.

Thinking of Corythus only sent another stab of pain through her heart. Why, why was she cursed with this life? If he should die, she would never forgive herself. What did it matter, if he went back to Helen, if he loved her or not? She could not bear to imagine what it would be like to know that Paris walked the earth no more.

Stumbling, Oenone walked blindly outside, but then she stopped in despair. He could have hid himself all over the mountain…how would she ever find him now? Where would she begin to search?

And then she had a flash of vivid memory, or perhaps it was a waking dream. She saw the shadowed valley of flowers and Paris and herself entwined, cushioned by the long silken grasses swaying gently in the wind, slender stalks so fragile. She looked with mingled surprise and happiness, recalling the certainty of love in that moment, smiling at the picture they made together, sprawled together, careless with the freedom of life and love.

Then Oenone's happiness turned to bitter ashes in her mouth and she wondered—memory, or foresight? Horrified at the thought, she fled down the mountainside, catching herself time and time again as once-nimble feet now tripped over stones and ensnaring plants alike in her hurry to reach their secret valley. A desperate paean to Apollo was upon her lips, the melodies and words barely uttered.

He lay still and unmoving in the tall grasses and she tumbled to a halt besides him, falling to her knees and reaching out with trembling hands to touch his cheek. It was cold beneath her fingers but at her touch his eyelashes fluttered, and slowly eyes the color of sable opened, meeting hers with delirium.

"Oenone," he mouthed, lips moving slightly, but no sound came out. She fumbled with the bag she had brought, seeking to bring out the precious herbs that would cure him of this evil, bring him whole and healthy to her once again. His hand rose to catch at hers weakly; he whispered a denial.

She knew he was beyond saving, knew it as she had driven him away from her home, knew it when she came in search of him. But still she cried, and laid herself beside him, and closed her eyes, so that he would not see her anguish. And in so many ways, little ways, she told him that she loved him and that despite every betrayal, she had always loved him.

Why had she learned the arts of prophecy? Her visions had brought her so much sorrow, and she was angry, that she had not been able to prevent it, that she saw their destinies laid out but could do nothing. It was a torture, to know that what she saw would be true, in the end.

Some white wildflowers were fragile and dying and their sweet-scented petals scattered in the air, falling on the two entwined lovers. Night fell and the figures were lost amid the darkness. Silver Selene from above looked on, remembering her own love, the princely Endymion, and she pitied the nymph in her sorrow, and shown soft light upon them, to gentle what despair that Fate had left behind.

- o – o – o – o -

The flames burned high in a great circle of fire and the figure inside, covered by a cloak of the darkest blue, was lost in the hungry orange, red, and gold. The crackling of the wood was loud, but those that stood by her swore that she made no sound. Yet her pain was for everyone to see; it was reflected in the blue of her eyes, painted by the slender and yet unyielding bearing of her body.

She stared into the flames with an odd sense of peace, mingled with longing. Why weep for this husk of the body, when the soul had already departed for the Underworld? She had suffered so, but now she stood with poise as if she were a column of smooth white marble.

All around the Nymphai wept, but for their mistress rather than for their mistress' love. The whisper among them seemed to feed the flames of the funeral pyre, and yet they persisted, speaking of the cold heart of Paris, who left behind a faithful and true wife, to take a bride that was the most beautiful wanton, to bring himself and Troy a curse fulfilled. So the oracles prophesied, and so it had come to pass. She looked at them all, one by one in the faces, recalling their loyalty to her through all the long years. They hated Paris, for all that he had done, but it was only because they did not understand.

What of Helen, Oenone wondered. Last night she had dreamed of her yet again, the luminous face that had caused the deaths of all she loved. How strange, that her life and Helen's were so intertwined, and yet they had never met, or exchanged a word. She could not truly resent the woman, for it was the weakness of men that caused the war, weakness that came of lust and the desire for possession. Couldn't they see that beauty, which they so prized as truth, was nothing but an illusion? Cut the skin, and everyone bleeds the same, Trojan or Greek, man or woman, beautiful or ugly. The men wanted to divide themselves in so many ways, one better than the other, but when it came to the soul, who was to judge?

She felt that perhaps she was kin to Helen in some inexplicable way, that Helen's beauty was a curse, just as her foresight was. She thought sadly that what beauty on the outside did not promise the same on the inside. Oenone thought of Paris, and how he was blinded by beauty, enthralled by it, when in truth, beauty is an ephemeral thing…it is the spirit within that survives, that matters in the end.

Loveliness is shed with the body, except for the rare kind of beauty that is of the heart. Oenone watched her beloved's body burn, and she wondered of philosophy although she had never done so before. It gave her some small measure of comfort.

Helen at least would be happy, Oenone thought without much bitterness. She had seen that she would live out her days by the side of yet another king, another man to fall prey to the failing of men. She knew those around her were staring at her, wondering what she was thinking. One dream, it was all she asked.

And then a cry from the multitude rose up, for the figure of Oenone was seen clearly before all, and she was walking towards the pyre with serenity. In that moment, bathed in the light of the red-gold flames, she was more goddess than nymph, and then she was dancing with beauty, never hesitating; it was a graceful dance, with fire as her partner.

They watched in horror as the flames caught at her simple gown, but still she moved on, and at last clasped Paris to her, then closed her eyes. It was mercy that the flames covered them so completely none could see the death of the lovers, and yet a keening, wordless croon of grief rose to fill the air, the voices of her followers, for they had witnessed an act of most faithful love, and not a heart was left untouched.

And they whispered that this once-shepherd, this Trojan prince was a fool, who knew not what heart he had broken so carelessly, and how he had exchanged truth and love for false splendor. That Oenone had loved him more than life, this prince that had turned from her and loved her not!

There were some that spoke of Fate and its destiny-thread, and shed no tear for the hubris of a prince that had been his downfall, and the nymph's love that had been her death.

Yet there were others that said they had seen a vision in the last moments of dying flame, Oenone and Paris embracing, whole and untouched, and behind them the loveliest form of Aphrodite, goddess of love.

They say that she spirited away these two lovers and reunited them in death, in the realm of Hades.

Who could say for certain, the power of love? One dream was all she asked for, one last vision of truth. Was this what she saw, when she walked into the flames?

- o – o – o – o -

Oenone silently stepped into the boat to cross the river Acheron. The shadow extended a bony hand and she gave him a gold coin as her fare, drawing her hand back quickly. She could not see his face, but all knew of Charon, ferryman of souls. The water was dark and unforgiving; although she did not touch it she felt as if she could tell it was as cold as ice.

"Do not look back," came the secretive whisper. She made no reply. There was no one to look back for, she thought tiredly. No one left. Wasn't this why she had done what she did, entered the land of the dead willingly?

The boat rocked gently, but Oenone sat still and unmoving, listening to the quiet sounds of the moving oars. She had nothing with her but the silver necklace she clutched in her hand, the symbol of her long ago marriage to Paris.

Looking down, she saw for the first time that it was not so very beautiful, not in comparison to the jewels and gold that must have been the treasure of Troy, or to what must have graced the neck of Helen. There was a simplicity to the small transparent teardrop stone, however, that she loved, and the winding silver vines and small leaves reminded her of the herbs she used to heal.

What did it matter if it was not the finest nor the rarest jewel, but a simple drop of glass? It carried with it all the warmth of memories, of the look in her love's eyes when he gave it to her that day that they pledged themselves to each other and became husband and wife.

She remembered Corynthus, only a few years old, had used to stare at it from where it hung around her neck, fascinated by the way the light could go through the clear stone. In some ways it was a symbol for herself, her undying love for Paris whatever he had done. Perhaps the devotion was wrong; perhaps when they had been abandoned, or when her son had been killed, Oenone should have finally given him up. Yet if she had any weakness, it was her loving heart. Yes, the stone was no jewel, no beauty, but it was love, and that was more precious to her than anything else could have been.

All her life she had been a healer, but who heals the healer?

She saw him first, standing as if lost in the darkness. "My love," she whispered as she reached out to touch him, half afraid that it was only a vision. He felt warm and solid beneath her hands, however. There was dull grief etched in his face and a weariness of the soul.

"Oenone," he said in a voice filled with longing, and his hands reached out to trace the shape of her face, to twine around her hair, as if he could not quite believe that she was real.

"I came to meet you."

The few tears that left his eyes were lost in the dark glory of her hair. "What have I done to you, Oenone? What have I done to us?"

"You were weak, Paris," she said sadly, admitting the truth to herself for the first time. "Yet I loved you, and still do."

"How could you say that," he said almost angrily, desperation causing his voice to be harsh. "I have wronged you in every way…I have betrayed you every time…" He pulled out of her arms.

"Forgiveness is mine to give, Paris."

"Not mine to accept," came the answer, hollow with sorrow and guilt.

Oenone understood how he must hate himself, the shame that was a heavy burden on his shoulders. There was nothing she could do for him, but she remembered his goodness before all had happened, the way that he seemed blessed with life and love.

"You were once another man," she told him, "one that loved and was loved. Do you believe that all that has escaped you?"

He turned away, unwilling to see her. Somehow the mercy in her eyes was harder to bear than any accusing gaze that might have been levied against him. He had lost faith in himself. "I do not deserve to be forgiven."

"Yet it starts here," she said in a voice so low, he could barely hear her. "Paris, look at me. Look at us." Paris turned around to see his son standing besides her, watching silently. He feared what he would see in Corythus' face, but there was no condemnation, no anger.

"Open your heart to love, Paris, and you will find that not all is lost." She drew him into an embrace and he realized at last it was what he had be searching for so long, why he had waited by the river.

In her love he had found redemption.

- o – o – o – o -

_December 27: My futile attempt to improve this. All I ended up doing was adding a couple of paragraphs and correcting some typos. I'm sorry; I've heard that the writing for this story is awkward and unnatural, butit's pretty much all I can do, even after I've had it sit for a couple of months. No more attempted revisions - I've got other stories to write, after all._** Please review anyway! Thank you – E.D.**


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